Barkindji Language App May 2026

The teens—Jasmine, 16, her cousin Koda, 15, and his friend Levi—had been recruited because they were the only young people in Wilcannia who could code. And because Aunty Meryl had threatened to tell their grandmothers they’d refused.

Mr. Thompson laughed, a rusty gate swinging open. “I know. She explained. Then she hugged me.”

They launched the app on New Year’s Eve, not with a press release, but with a barbecue by the river. The kids from town downloaded it immediately. So did teachers, nurses, and even the whitefella cop who’d learned to say yitha yitha (slowly, slowly). barkindji language app

Aunty Meryl shook her head slowly. “No. That’s the old way. Whitefella way. Put words in boxes, people forget to speak them.” She reached into her worn canvas bag and pulled out a cassette tape, the label faded to illegibility. “This is your great-uncle Paddy, 1982. Last fluent speaker before he passed. We got ninety minutes of him telling stories, naming trees, singing the river.”

“Three more than most,” she said. “But we need more than words. We need the breath .” The teens—Jasmine, 16, her cousin Koda, 15, and

“Right, you lot,” she said, her voice like dry leaves rustling. “This old dog needs to learn new tricks. The Barkindji language app isn’t going to build itself.”

In the dusty back room of the Broken Hill Regional Library, 72-year-old Aunty Meryl sat before a laptop, her gnarled fingers hovering over the keyboard. Around her, three teenagers slumped in their chairs, scrolling through phones. Thompson laughed, a rusty gate swinging open

“We’re not making a game ,” Jasmine clarified, already pulling up a wireframe on her screen. “It’s a dictionary, with audio and grammar notes.”